


A Friend Indeed

by LittleGreenPlasticSoldier



Series: Castiel's Hope [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol, Dancing, Domestic, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Killing, Men of Letters Bunker, Not Beta Read, Sexual Harassment, Swearing, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-10
Updated: 2014-10-10
Packaged: 2018-02-20 15:06:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 10,483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2433176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleGreenPlasticSoldier/pseuds/LittleGreenPlasticSoldier
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Elle is stuck in a crappy, crappy place - bad job, bad location, no friends, no money.  How did she manage to herself so thoroughly screwed?  What bastard element of the cosmos led her to this point?  Well... there may actually be a name for that.  Fortunately, a certain softie in a trenchcoat crosses her path, and Elle's lot looks to be improving.  But she's about to be linked to the Winchesters, so that luck ain't gunna last, is it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Right time, crap place

**Author's Note:**

> Ok, so this is my first ever fanfic. It's going to be big. You'll be okay.

_Holy crap and balls. I don’t even have enough words for these days._

“Queen Betsy! Table 2!”

 _My fucking name’s not Betsy_ , she thinks, but calls “Yep” and gets to it.

For some reason Elizabeth is feeling extra surly today, very prickly. It’s been building for a while and right now she’s ripe to get on her back foot and have a good hard look at just how shitty things are…

Yet another heart stopping heap of meat drips grease off the edge of the plate, literally, as she slides it onto Table 2 with a smile. The place isn't busy, but the faster she moves the dishes the less cleaning there is for the floor. Three people sit at the counter, two booths are filled, it’s mid-morning and second breakfast has almost wrapped up.

The diner is small, with a view to a crumbling bitumen road and, beyond that, drab fields. Elizabeth stepped off a series of long bus rides three weeks ago. This town didn't improve the view, but here is where she ran out of money. And this diner, with the only job going in town, is especially small for the people who work there. The kitchen is ‘compact’ which means Elizabeth doesn't go in there at all. Jim, the owner, does the kitchen. The aisle she traipses is between the front of the kitchen and the counter. The cash register, sitting at the closed end toward the front door, barely fits on the benchtop, and is only just as wide as the aisle. Two thin people can pass each other behind the counter, but no more. Luckily for Elizabeth, a ha ha, she’s the only employee at this joint. Every other local employee has already quit this post. _How fortunate for me. What a catch._

She wipes down the cracked laminate and pointlessly shuffles condiments as a customer, a middle aged guy who looks to have parked his truck at the nearby service station, dilemmas between sausages and bacon.

“Get both? Decide on the plate?” she suggests, with a smile.

“Aw, don’t say that!” he whined.

“Go on! Who’s going to know?” she teases. _Dear god, is this the perk in my day? Flirting with a stranger over pork?_

“Smile at me like that and I'll be guilty of two things today!” he cheeks back.

 _Ugh._ “If you get sausages AND bacon it'll count as three… “

For weeks, the only people Elizabeth’s spoken to have been fellow bus passengers, bar flies and customers – usually from the same starting point “Are you British? I love your accent…” Jim, a thoroughly terrible boss, didn't ask where she was from. Her hair is forever greasy but, liberatingly, absolutely no one seems to notice. None of these folks know, or care, how good she could look. She knows so few people in this country a phone is actually a waste of money. She hasn't even felt like buying new clothes in months, but here she is, being here.

“Okay. I'm sold!” grins trucker driver. “Sausages, bacon _and_ smiles.” Wink.

“MORTISE! One bangers and bacon breakfast!”

“GODDAMMIT!” yells the kitchen. Jim throws a pan and slams his way out of the kitchen. Red faced and stomping up the aisle he towers over Elizabeth as best he can, 400 pounds of snorting fury. She places her hand on the counter to remind herself to not back an inch and braces for a cloud of week-old sweaty grease. The diner doorbell rings, but he doesn't care how this looks: _Apparently, he is done with my shit._

“It’s not Mortise! It’s not Jesus, or Boris or Mario or goddamn LLOYD!! It’s JIM! **JIM!!** GOT IT?”

Elizabeth’s heart races, because he is huge and scary, and he has groped her already, and she will be alone with him after the diner closes, but now, as he stares her off, she doesn't want to give an inch either. She holds her ground, and holds his scowl with the best eat-shit-and-die glare she has, which isn't the hard part because she is also so done.

“Remember when I told you my name wasn't Betsy? And you grabbed my ass and said ‘Sure sweet chops’?” Jim raised an eyebrow, twitching his head to say yeah so?

“Well,” she continued, “start calling me Elizabeth, and I might miraculously remember your name. James.”

He stands upright, frown intact. She does her best to match him, 6 inches shorter and all.

Jim turns on the spot, his belly nudging items along the bench top and walks back to the end of the aisle. As he turns into the kitchen he mumbles “You'll get yours, y'fucken bitch.”

Stillness. _Did anyone hear that? Doesn't matter. Breath in! Smile! Eyebrows up!_  “Well!” she chirps to no one in particular, “that was dramatic!”

Trucker driver is surprised and apparently entertained – jerk – but Elizabeth smiles at him as easily as she can, suggesting she’s okay, that she’s dealt with this before. “Coffee?” she offers.

But the truth is that she hasn't. She hasn't seen Jim that angry. She has seen him yell, though, swearing and breaking things. His size doesn't keep him from moving. She suspects that, probably by sheer virtue of being bigger and stronger, Jim believes he can rewrite the law over her, if the mood should take him.

Elizabeth turns back around with the pot, smiling and ready to serve, and notices the new customer. He’d sat just behind her shoulder, but as close as he could to the argument. He was handsome, with short brunette hair, but his blue eyes were sad, or tired. He wore a stale suit, a trench coat and a lovely 4 o’clock shadow.

“Morning, what can I get you?” she begins.

“Does he often talk to you like that?” he asks. _Well, that’s direct,_ thinks Elizabeth, but she really can’t be bothered caring about forwardness. She'll take all the compassion she can get.

“Is your name Frank?”

“I'm sorry?”

“No, sorry,” she dismisses. “Uh, no... No, that’s a first for us. I've only worked here three weeks so, uh… we’re still in the honeymoon period.”

“You should quit,” he says squarely.

“Yes I should,” she agrees, and then seamlessly slips into a completely honest conversation with a total stranger.

“Why don’t you?”

“Because I have no money to get myself to another job. He doesn't pay enough.”

“Then how can you ever leave?”

“I haven’t figured that bit out yet.” _And there,_ she blinks, _is how fucked I really am_. “Would you like some food?”

“Scrambled eggs and bacon, please. And the coffee,” he smiles. She pours with grateful eyes in return and this time, rather than talking to Jim, she writes the order down and smacks it on the kitchen counter before walking straight through the storeroom and outside to the bins. With hands on hips and a wobbly chin, she deep breathes herself back to composure. _Now is actually not the time for me to take stock of your crappy shitful lot. Save it for night-time, Elle, when you’re free to cry without interruption. Yes, you are stuck in a pimple town in an arse county; yes, you have no money and no one to care or worry about you; yes, you've not a friend within 3 day’s reach, but you’re alive and unhurt and employed. Shit could be worse. Time to have a nice hot spoon of concrete and harden the fuck up._

She goes back in, but as she passes the kitchen entrance Jim smacks her on the backside so hard she almost loses balance and her eyes water again. “Food’s up,” he declares. The arsehole was waiting. _Shit could be worse..._

She places the sad eggs and bacon in front of the new customer and leans her hand on the counter as she asks “Can I get you anything else?” She won’t make eye contact and he can tell she’s upset and scared.

“You can leave here. You can work for me,” he says sternly.

“What?”

“I have a job you can do.”

“What kind of job?”

He looks sideways, mouth open, and Elizabeth finds her instinct is to be suspicious. “Hhhhhousekeeping. And cooking.”

“Really?” _Well damn, I can do that_.

“Yes, for me and my friends. You could work for room and board.”

“No.” _Let’s not go from awful to stupid,_ she thinks. “That’s not better; I’d still be without any money. You’d have to pay me as well.”

“Yes, yes of course,” he says, picking up confidence. She notices that’s the first time his voice has changed note. “We’d pay you $50 a week as well. I think.”

“Do you even know what you can afford?” she asks.

“Not really, but I'm sure I can offer you something better than this,” he said.

 _Hmmm, is this compassion or preying_. “What’s ‘you and your friends’?” she wonders aloud.

“I live with two men, they’re brothers, in an old house that’s partially underground and in some lovely woodland surrounds. They’re hunters,” he replies confidently.

“You serious? You want me to live in an underground building, in the woods, with three strangers who kill things for a living…This is better how?” Elizabeth asks, eyebrows and hairline almost blending.  He seems deflated at the summary, realising how bad it sounds. She drops her gaze in dismay. _Oh Christ, I'll be stuck here forever._

But he places his hand gently on hers, his warmth making her glance up. He looks into her eyes and says “You will be safe there. I promise.” And she believes him. As though all else has fallen away –heat and noise, fear and fatigue – Elizabeth loses her senses for a moment and feels comfort, and she has no doubt, at all, that he means it. She lets the moment hang and savours such a connection…

“Okay then...” she drawls, resolved. He releases her hand, but not his gaze and she absently smooths her apron. “Do you want to have your meal?”

“Not really. It’s looks poorly made and quite unappetising.”

“Well, I have to move out of my motel room and empty my fridge. Want some real food?” she offers.

“Yes, please.”

“See? I can save people too!” and he smiles in reply. Elizabeth collects something like her wage from the till, removes her apron and piffs it into the counter.

“Hey boss! James Fuckington Shit for Brains the Third?” she calls as she gets herself the hell out of that aisle and out of his reach. Jim’s furious head appears at the kitchen doorway. “Are you fuckin-” he starts.

“I quit!” she declares, and adds, through clenched teeth: “You can kiss my arse.”

She turns for the door, barely hearing the light applause, with her new friend following her out of that God-awful diner. Elizabeth strides down the block, the guy keeping up but silent and waiting for her to take direction. After crossing two streets she slows for a few steps then stops. She can just see her hotel from here, but he doesn't know that…

“Remind me again how I can trust you?” she pleads.

“My name is Castiel. I'm afraid I haven’t anything to give you but my assurance, my word. But it is good.”

She looks at him and searches his face for anything familiar.

“I can tell you are a good person, Elizabeth. Is there anything I can do to gain your trust enough?” he offers.

She thinks. She shifts her weight and thinks… “You know, if I knew anyone in town, I’d give them a copy of your ID, or something. But I don’t know anyone for miles. For states, actually…”

“Do you feel like she can trust me?” he asks.

“Aw shit, you know what? Yeah, I do.” She’s amazed at herself. “I reckon I can trust you, and it’s probably the most stupid thing I've ever thought.” She throws her hands up in surrender. “Come on Castiel, let’s go eat a head of lettuce.”


	2. Locks, stock & barrel

Castiel sits at the table and watches Elizabeth pack. All the food she owns is in boxes on the tabletop. He’s already eating some lettuce, munching like a squirrel, a big whole leaf in both hands. She feels bad she’s not also eating a leaf of lettuce. _I suggested it and now he’s actually doing it, without me, but… well, he doesn't seem uncomfortable._ So she lets him munch.

“Is your car even nearby?” she checks.

“I’ll go and get it,” he says, standing and laying down the leaf.

“Ok,” she says resting her hands on her hips, “I’ll have a shower.” _Totally something he needs to know! Well done!_

He smiles and slips out the door.

Elizabeth sits on the bed and takes stock. _What are the chances you’re about to become a cautionary tale…?_

Castiel appears by his car parked in front of the diner. He notices it’s now empty and closed, and Jim is throwing things around the kitchen and yelling down the phone.

During the slow drive to the motel he also reflects on the situation he’s created. He'd recognised Elizabeth the moment he walked into the diner. All things being equal, it would've been more prudent to let her be. But once he understood her fear and how sensible it was, he couldn't leave her to such a future. He felt it a duty to intervene. Not meddling with fate was one thing, but being a bystander of tragedy was wrong.

He was just a little proud of the solution; it seemed so neat. It really would be helpful to have someone in the bunker to look after us and the place, he thought, but he knew managing what she’s exposed to, her contact with Sam and Dean, and anyone else for that matter, would be tricky. He wondered if any lie he could fabricate would be believable enough. Would it be humane or fair to expect her to have contact with only himself?...

Castiel waits in his car till he can see Elizabeth’s silhouette through the window, not wanting to interrupt a private activity. He knocks on the door. She answers with hair towelled dry and a little excited that it might be worth actually doing something with it. _A friend! Hoo-bloody-ray!_ She’s finished packing, boxed all the extra food and toiletry things and she’s had just enough time to start doubting.

“Come in!”

“You seem ready,” he says, as he picks up a box and gets back to his lettuce leaf.

“You like lettuce, yeah?”

“It’s refreshing, I think,” and he looks at it ponderously. “Rabbits are generally right about things.”

“Not sure that many kids is right,” she comments.

“Ha, maybe. You are funny,” he says. “You’re going to fit right in.”

“Really? Good,” she relaxes a little. “I need the company.”

They both grab everything and she takes a quick look around before closing the door. With stuff in the back and Elizabeth in the front, Castiel pulls out of the carpark and they’re off to her next unknown.


	3. Road trip! BFF4eva!

“How far is it?” Elizabeth asks, settling into Castiel's incongruous pimp mobile and habitually doing up the seatbelt. _This car is going to make me nauseous before we even move…_  
“About three hours. You can sleep if you like,” Castiel replies.  
“No, I’m probably ok thanks.”  
They leave the city limits, straight roads ahead, and she hopes he'll begin a conversation. Which becomes less and less likely.  
“Would you like some more lettuce?” she tries.  
“No thank you. I need both hands for the wheel.”  
“Ahaha. No worries.” _I’ll trust that’s a joke._  
Some silence passes.

“So how long have you been in the US?”  
“About two months. I started in New York, spent about three weeks travelling and got stuck here on my last available penny.”  
“You have other pennies available.”  
“They’re wrapped up in a British account I can’t access out here. Maybe in a metropolis I could, but not out in the sticks. I didn't expect to get robbed in Wyoming. I kind of made things work but...”  
“Wyoming is east of here. You began to head back to New York?”  
“No… I just felt I’d gone too far.”  
Castiel shifts in his seat.  
“Why were you in New York?” he asks.  
“I was going to a conference. I work in schools with ” - go air quotes – “‘troubled teens’, in England, recently, and came for a TED talk and some things. Anyway, I hit the soil and got wanderlust… I just, went! Not sure why. But no regrets. It is gorgeous countryside, just beautiful. I managed to organise a tourist visa but stuffed up planning my finances.”  
Castiel shifts again, repositioning his hands. “How long were you in England?”  
“Only a year,” and she guesses by now that he knew she was Australian. “I trained and worked around Melbourne for about 7 years.”  
“Sounds very interesting.”  
“Um, yeah,” she says, a little confused, because she hasn't really talked about work, but anyway… “What about you? How did you meet these brothers?”  
“Uh, through my work.”  
“Which is?”  
“Hunting.”  
“What do you hunt?”  
“….Vermin.”  
“Don’t they call that exterminating?”  
“Sometimes they’re big things.”  
“Okeydokey. Sounds grizzly.”  
“Mmm.”  
More silence. More plains. Elizabeth reaches back and grabs a pack of crackers, offering one to Castiel.

After the third cracker, she asks “Are the brothers nice?”  
“Yes, they’re very thoughtful and generous men. Although… occasionally they’re a bit… grumpy,” he frowns, carefully choosing his words.  
“Ah well, what’s new?” she adds, and Castiel assumes that a rhetorical question for conversational purposes.  
He decides to try out his next tactic. “But it’s best to avoid them. In fact, I think you should do all you can to not meet them at all.”  
“Is that going to be practical? We’re sharing a house,” she asks, wondering what is up.  
“It’s a big house, and their work isn't near the kitchen. They’re often out, away, on jobs, so cleaning rooms and cooking could reasonably be done away from them.”  
“Why no contact?”  
Castiel frowns at the road. Elizabeth presses on, looking at her hands. “I realise you've pulled me way from an abusive boss, which I do appreciate, but if you won’t share why these guys are off limits, I'll be hard put not to feel, well, uncomfortable at least…” She squints at the horizon. “Should you have promised my safety?”  
He starts are her sharp question. “Yes! Yes!” Castiel assures, glancing at Elizabeth to show his earnestness. “They’re no threat to you! It’s just… they've had a series of bad female relationships, women who've used them and been awful, and I'm worried that they'll “rebound”, as they say, that they’re not thinking properly…” he sighs. “And I'm sure you don’t want to be wrapped up that kind of drama either.”  
_Ugh, what drama? No one’s going to rebound with me!! Remote location or not. What a pathetic pair._  
“Okay, I'll do what I can, but I can’t just Sabrina myself out of a room, you know. If I meet them then I meet them. I can still avoid them after that if need be.”  
“Good. Thank you,” he says, nodding and relaxing. “I should warn you though: people say they’re quite handsome. ” _Seriously?_ She looks at him incredulously. “Very handsome,” he confirms.  
“Righto. I'll be sure to brace myself against the overwhelming desire I'll surely find hard to contain... Maybe I should scatter some chairs around the house so I can sit down, should I unexpectedly encounter one of these icons of beauty. Oooh, my lady-ness. However shall I cope.”  
“You’re being sarcastic,” Castiel smiles.  
“You’re being correct.”  
She slides down a little and gets comfy, noticing the sign welcoming them to Kentucky, and hopes she don’t doze off and miss countryside she'll probably never see again.

Castiel is grateful for the time to think. He hopes he covered the situation well enough and wonders just what will happen if, or realistically, when Elizabeth meets his housemates. He’s not so worried about Sam. But when he thinks about Dean, the unpredictability of it and the current state he’s in, he wonders if he’s made a terrible, irretrievable mistake.  
There is a small chance, though, that having Elizabeth around could make things a bit better, possibly the best they can be. I must take hope, he thinks, and trust in the goodness of my friends.


	4. Meet the Bunker

As Elizabeth wakes up, peeling her cheek from the car seat, they pull up to a set of stairs leading down into the ground and to a door surrounded by a small concrete wall. The ground rises up behind it, and looms either side, a building behind it all. It’s cool, facing north and shaded from the sun, with birch forest around. _They live in a hydro-electric station?_

The two of them are able to carry all Elizabeth’s things in one trip. “I’m pretty sure they’re out, but just let me check,” Castiel says, leaving her outside to check out the view. There’s local industry in the distance, but nothing else to see but flat lands.  
He pops back saying “Okay, you can come in.”

They walk down a corridor like a 1930s subway with cream tiles to shoulder height and a black stripe near the top. The corridor is short and opens out to a wrought iron platform that looks over a curved room, with a beautiful black-and-white chequered floor, a huge internally lit table with a map of the world, and careful decorations around the walls and ceilings. Elizabeth can see a spacious library to the left. As she walks down the staircase curving down the edge of the room she realises she don’t know enough to pick the style – Art Deco? Gothic?  
“Wow,” she breathes, jaw slack. “It’s gorgeous! …It’s gorgeous. What a fantastic building… What’s the map for?”  
“Yes, it is lovely,” Castiel replies, without a hint of meaning it. “The map is left over from the previous owners. The guys thought it was ‘cool’ so they kept it.”  
“Excellent decision,” she comments.

He shows Elizabeth around the place – the retro, almost industrial kitchen; library full of leather bound volumes and antique weapons; the bathroom; and the bare bedrooms, including her room.  
With the food she brought left in the kitchen, there are just her few bags on the bed. Castiel stands in the doorway and shrugs emphatically, “So that’s pretty much it.” _That’s an overly casual gesture for him,_ she thinks. She figured it was to do with the fact he’s lying: _There is so much building I haven’t been shown, but it can wait._  
“I get an ensuite? That’s a nice perk!” Then she thinks, “Wait, does that mean there’re four bathrooms to clean?”  
“Ah, no,” he says smiling. “They couldn’t agree on who should get the master room. I think it works well for you to have this, being female and beyond their rooms too. Their bathroom is the last door down there.”  
“Thank God,” Elizabeth says, sitting on the bed. “Where’s your room?”  
“Uh, there’s a small guest room just here,” he says, gesturing in the other direction, “but I'm away a lot.”  
“What do you mean? How many nights a week do you spend here?”  
Castiel doesn't expect such specific questions, but he says “Four” hoping a quick reply is a convincing reply.  
“Rightio. I might go check out what’s in the fridge.” She gets up and Castiel walks with her back down the corridor toward the kitchen. “Is there a budget for food and such?”  
“If you give me a list of what’s needed, I'll get it.”  
“Okeydokey. I'll try and think of a meal plan… To be honest, I've never cooked and kept house for four people. For any people. I just figure, since I haven’t yet died of malnutrition or squalor myself, I'll figure it out.”  
“I guessed as much, but you’re certainly intelligent. I'm sure you'll do fine,” he said, pulling a pen and paper from a small drawer. “And you should probably plan to feed six – Sam and Dean are big guys.”  
“No worries,” she smiles. _Sam and Dean. What kind of big, I wonder._  
“I have to go in a little while. Do you think you could get some books from the library when you’re done? Something to occupy yourself in your room after I leave?” he asks.  
“Okay, I suppose,” and again Elizabeth realises she has to configure this whole avoidance thing. “Do you know about wifi passwords, or something. Books are great but internet is also very great.”  
“I'll ask the brothers for you.”  
“And maybe a schedule of some sort, so I can predict when to be out and about?” she adds, thinking further.  
“Uh… I'll try. I'll do my best,” and another well-meaning smile appears.  
Elizabeth drops her shoulders and look at the pen and paper. _Gentle solitary confinement. For how long?_  
“I'll be around. We'll figure things out,” he assures and places a hand on her shoulder. She feels a pang in her chest, realising she’d much prefer a hug, inappropriate though it would be.  
“Okay. Good. Thanks…” she says, and turns to the pantry to see what’s there.

Minutes later, in the library, Elizabeth has decided to not pick up any book that looks foreign or precious. Which was nearly all of them. After collecting the first few books of a paperback series – what looks to be the only non-reference text in the library – she hugs them to her chest and turns to Castiel as he stands from his seat. “You don’t have to call me Elizabeth every time, if you like,” she says.  
“You don’t like Betsy.”  
“Just about anything _but Betsy_ ,” she points, “is fine. I usually get Elle, Liz or Libby.”  
“I think Elle is nice. You can call me Cass, if you like,” he replies. “So, you've got my number and I have yours. Call, whatever you need.”  
“Shall do,” she nods. And off he goes. Elle doesn't even hear the front door close, but rather than thinking it strange she mentally notes that she probably won’t hear the brothers return home.


	5. Asking forgiveness is meant to be easier...

That night Castiel is waiting in the war room for the brothers. They barrel in above him, debating the finer points of the day.  
“Oh my God, Dean! Again! Really?”  
“Yeah, Sam! Because you did. _Again._ ”  
“Whatever. I don’t make you do anything, you know.”  
“Whatever.”  
They storm down the stairs and pull up on their side of the glowing table. Castiel stands, on the other, putting his hands in his pockets.  
“Hey Cass, what’s news?” says Dean, deadpan.  
Castiel assumes they've had a bad day. “I have good news,” he begins.  
“Really?” says Sam. They both frown and raise their eyebrows – how about that?  
“Yes. I've hired some help,” Castiel declares, unreasonably optimistic.  
“What?” asks Sam, shifting his weight, tilting in.  
“What?” Dean matches, “Someone to keep you from bumping into shit all day?”  
“No,” Cass replies, patiently, “someone to help around here.”  
“You mean another hunter?” Dean asks, a bit miffed.  
Castiel begins to worry, but tries harder, unfortunately. “I've hired someone to cook and clean the bunker. For you. She’s a nice woman.”  
“Wwhat?! Cass! Why would you do that?” Dean asks, getting louder. This isn't the kind of thing they want to deal with right now, but his frustration is still disproportionate.  
“Dean, she needed help, shelter, and a job-”  
“Cass, we’re not a halfway house,” says Sam, arms gesturing. “You can’t just offer that up to anyone you meet. Seriously, living and working in the bunker?” – bigger gesturing – “With us?! With what we’re doing right now?!”  
“Sam, this isn't charity… as such. She was in danger, from demons. But she doesn't realise how much danger. And she can’t know. This is the best place for her.”  
“Aw, c’mon Cass,” Dean moans and drops his hands, half walking away from the conversation. He keeps himself quiet to avoid anything regretful.  
By now Elizabeth could hear the muffled ends of sentences – the loudest parts – and figured it was over her. _I’lllll just let Cass deal with that for a while…_ she thinks, realising she’s also pretty much trapped.  
“Look, she’s- she'll-” Castiel stands there, hands patting the air in front of him, trying to think of whatever magic words will bring them around… “She won’t be in your way. She'll cook your food and clean your clothes and rooms and… maybe it won’t be for long, but just… see how it goes. She doesn't want to have any contact with you. At all.”  
“She’s going to live in the same building as us and have _no_ contact?” Sam asks, disbelieving.  
“As much as is possible. She’s been badly treated by men. She’s traumatised,” he lied. “If you can avoid her completely, she'll just live here and be useful.”  
“Aw jeez,” breathed Dean. “This sounds like a complication Cass. ”  
“Maybe… think of it as… a gift from the cosmos,” Castiel says, his final effort.  
Dean, by now with his back to Castiel, looks sideways at Sam who shrugs as if to say Well, what can we do?  
“Hunted by demons, abused by men, _and_ homeless, you say?” checks Sam.  
“Yeah.”  
“Well… let’s see how she goes,” he says, reconciling the point and shrugging at Dean.  
“Whatever,” Dean says, resigned. “If she can’t cook, she’s out,” he throws over his shoulder, walking through the library to finish his night.  
“Her name’s Elizabeth,” Castiel informs Sam, “but don’t call her Betsy.”


	6. First Impressions

Elizabeth had taken a day to settle in and decided to start late the next, figuring she’d have to wait for the guys to have breakfast and go before she could leave her room.  
Around 10am, fed and showered, she assesses a pile of shopping on the kitchen bench. Plus a pile of dishes in the sink. With food stored and dishes done, she sets to preparing a set of meals for the next few days. Her plan was to cook up and store some food first, get to the cleaning later.

Today she hoped to do a big pot of Bolognese sauce with red and green capsicums, Moussaka with a layer of potato on the bottom, a cherry and a peach pie and, if there’s time, some burger patties with a few veggies snuck in. She’d requested some prepackaged snap-frozen veggies for the freezer but, based on nothing more than stereotypes, Elizabeth guessed they’d skip them half the time, so she had no fear of cheating her way into a balanced diet with hidden grated carrot, or some such...  
Cling-film, snaplock bags, a permanent marker, masking tape and a stack of reusable freezable containers sat on the table. During her planning she’d decided that if contact with the brothers was not allowed then they would have to do a few steps for themselves, so each serve came with instructions for reheating and side serves.  
With her phone playing her favourite tunes, Elle managed to get it all done in seven hours, including a short lunch break with a few chapters of the paperback series, and several award winning dance numbers.

Unsure about when her not-housemates would return, she packed up, cleaned up and got back to her room as quickly as she could. But when they did get home, she cracked her door open an inch to see if she could catch a review…  
“Food first?”  
“God yes. What is there?”  
“Ummm, holy cow. Lots. Elizabeth cooked! There’s… Bolognese sauce… burgers… Moussaka!”  
 _He must be in the freezer._  
“What is that? A dessert?”  
“No, it’s meaty and Greek, and good, I’ve heard.”  
“There’s moussaka and a pie in here.”  
 _Oh thank god, he’s found the fridge. Yes, eat that first._  
“Okay, let’s give it a go.”  
“Is it meant to be healthy? …Aaaw, she’s even written how to microwave it!”  
“Be nice. She could probably feel your stupidity through her bedroom wall.”  
 _So the nicer one’s bedroom is by the bathroom, the gruff one between us._  
Elle listens to the microwave hum, ding and slam, the chairs and cutlery crash about, the fridge open and close and bottle caps tinkle. Meanwhile, she sneaks as stealthily as she can down the corridor to get a better earful of them having her first meal.  
Things stop.  
Elle is near the entrance to the kitchen, sitting on the ground and leaning against the wall.  
“Cheers,” says the gruff one.  
“Cheers,” the other replies. Tink, go the bottles.  
They eat. She holds her breath.  
“Oh... Oh no... Oh my God,” the gruff one mumbles while he chews. “Oh Goddamn. She has to stay.”  
“Mmm mmmm.”  
“Goddamn. What is this?”  
“Moussaka… wow. We have a cook.”  
“What’s her name again?”  
“Elizabeth… But not Betsy.” _Aw, thanks Cass!_  
“Oh Elizabeth-” She gasps at the words, shifting her legs involuntarily and putting her hand to her mouth.  
“…please don’t leave.”  
 _What was that?_  
After a spell of wordless eating, the sounds of metal on ceramic end and it’s just bottle on wood.  
“You changed your tune quickly. You’re that fickle?” the softer one observes.  
“Did we eat the same meal? You don’t want that again?”  
“Fair point… You said there was pie?”  
“Yes, please prepareth the true test,” requests the gruff brother. The other clears their plates and leaves to get dessert. Elle takes a moment to consider how rude this is, to be able to hear him without him knowing. She hears him sigh, or groan, and figures he’s rubbing his neck or something.  
They both hear a distant ding and wait for the pie… more silence.  
Elle is much more nervous now: the standard has been set, and she so wants to please. She hasn’t made peach pie before…  
The cutlery hits a shorter and deeper note of glass and she realises that the pie isn’t served out; they mean to share it between them, straight from the dish.  
A few clinking sounds, and a spoon hits the table.  
“Well that does it. I’ve got to thank her,” says the gruff one. Elizabeth listens for this voice quite carefully, collecting the sounds.  
“You can’t Dean. You have to leave her alone.” _So that’s Sam. They sound lovely._  
“It isn’t fair Sam. Not fair. We’ve been eating truck stop Shit Pies for years. Where has she been?”  
“Agreed. These last few weeks would’ve been a lot more tolerable with this around.”  
“Damn straight.”  
They eat in silence. Spoons clatter in the dish. Chairs creak. They rest.  
“Well,” sighs Dean, “that was just sex.”  
“Ha, yeah. Hey, we _could_ thank her with the dishes.”  
“That’s not a precedent I want to set. How about a note?”  
“Yeah, ok. I’m writing it though.”  
“Good man.”  
Dishes and chairs move, Elizabeth hot foots it back down to her room. 

She’s delighted – _deeelighted_ – with their reaction to her meal. She’s not sure what she thinks of her reaction though… _Why would someone saying my name make me flip like that? I can’t even remember where I felt it. I can’t get the words out of my head. Maybe it’s just been too long since I’ve been with a guy. Shit, maybe Cass was right about the separation thing. I’m not sure how I’d go flirting with a very handsome man if he was confident with women. Wait, what? Get a grip! I could deal! Grown woman, you could deal!! Sheesh, get your shit together…_  
But Elizabeth falls asleep to the warmth of those words, and holds them to her chest all night.


	7. Qs and As

Castiel had been right about the planning. The brothers did eat large meals, and then left overs for lunch whenever they were home.  
Sam’s note had read “Elizabeth, top meal! Thanks for the effort, Sam & Dean.” _Well shit_ , she’d thought,  _I'm glad I snuck in the eavesdropping! Stingey bastard._ But still, she’s noticing more and more how desperately she wants to provide and to please. Elle assumes it’s to fill the gap of actual human contact.

Elle had left a note, rewritten three times, that said “What foods don’t you eat?” and the brothers replied with a very short list, thankfully.  
Her next note said “Are you ok with how I'm cleaning your rooms? Vacuuming and dusting, no tidying or touching things. OK?” “Sounds awesome” was the reply on the bottom.  
Again, as she realised what she needed, and feeling very amateur: “Sorry for more notes, I'm figuring this out as I go. I'll be doing the beds on Monday mornings. Please let me know if I do anything, or if you think of anything, that won’t work for you.” And again “Monday mornings is about four times more often than we did them. Sounds good.”

After a week, Elle finds each day has some cooking – some more than others – and some cleaning. Even though she isn't going anywhere, she still feels a need to keep a stash of meals in the freezer.  
Castiel dropped by most days, asking about bits and pieces and donating some company, but Elle wasn't sure he was actually using his room. She had decided early on to let him keep his business, rather than pry.  
By now Elle has finished the paperback series, which was a badly written and cheesy story about brothers named Sam and Dean who hunt supernatural things. She just assumed it was either written or bought for them by someone who thought it was a good joke. Probably the latter, considering the effort the first would take.

Today, after a week and a half at the bunker, Castiel checks in, and in a very timely manner.  
“How are things going, Elle?” he asks as they sit at a library table.  
“Yeah, really well! I’ve kind of got a routine going,” Elle replies, smiling.  
“Excellent! The guys seem happy with you,” he shared.  
“Really? That’s great.” _Just happy? No other adjectives to add…?_  
“Umm, I'm glad you’re here actually. I've read all the fiction they have, crap though it is, and all the other books look rather precious. And I’d like to read something other than a screen occasionally. Do you think you could give me a lift into town to visit the library? Maybe grab a coffee or a meal out?”  
“Uuuh, okay…” Castiel says, thinking hard and looking worried.  
“I’ve been for short walks but I'm getting a bit cabin feverish. I’d really like to go to a bar somewhere if possible, go out for a dance.”  
“Oh you should not do that alone,” he says, frown at her directly.  
“Well, preferably no. That would be sad. Would you come with me?” Elle asks, smiling hopefully. “Wouldn't be long? Just one drink? On meeeee?”  
Castiel realised he cannot sensibly do any other than acquiesce. How can he justify saying no?  
“C’mon Cass, the kitchen door is a rotten dance partner…”  
“Well, how about I drive you to the library this afternoon and then we eat dinner and a drink afterward. Home by nine?”  
“Nine?! Jeez, even the folks of Beaumont stay out past nine!” Elle laughs, and quickly realises Castiel doesn't get the joke. And probably doesn't dance. Maybe another time. “Okay, driver, I'll take what I can get.”  
“Okay,” nods Castiel, “let’s leave at four.”  
“Mm-mmm,” Elle hums, as she rises, affecting a southern accent, “then ah best go’n get mahself presentable!” And she saunters off to her room, to pick something from her suitcase that’s between ‘conference’ and ‘kitchen’.


	8. Excursion to the Drinking Establishment - Part 1

The library was small. Once there, after much negotiation, Elle managed to convince Castiel to get a library card for himself for her to use. She’d forgotten how her Tourist status would make borrowing tricky.

She’d taken the heftiest text from the cooking section, plus something about healthy bulk meals, both as American as she could find. But Castiel was standing near the dictionaries, not reading, not sitting… He didn't seem put out but he wasn't putting her at ease either. So she sought out a few tried and true texts she enjoyed, and thought they’d have – Austen’s Pride and Prejudice, Bronte’s Jane Eyre, Stockett’s The Help – and wrapped up the visit. Since the library was done so quickly, the next few hours were spent walking around the town and its park with Castiel patiently listening to the summary of Elizabeth’s borrowed books. He’d expected it would be a very tedious undertaking, already knowing the plots of all three texts, but it was the safest line of conversation he could think of.

He hadn't imagined, however, how revealing it could be to hear another person recount something familiar. As Elizabeth described the Bennet’s with such affection, admired Jane from afar, and shivered at the bravery in Jacksonville, Castiel could compare their understandings of such events and gauge her character, her perspective. He could also ask questions of her and learn how other’s might interpret what they’d read about.

He found Elle to be easy company, someone who spoke easily and was relaxed; she was giving and forgiving. Her questions pushed his thinking, and through discussing the texts he learned still more about people, no matter their imaginary nature, or how foreign or far away they were. He especially appreciated her acceptance of his own character. Castiel knew he didn't always blend in well, and he assumed her experience with the breadth of needs in adolescent development was what made her so welcoming.

Soon a predictably awkward afternoon had become a lovely, long, comfortable chat and they slowly wound their way back to the only bar in town they saw with a jukebox. Now they sit opposite each other, tables-for-two lined up to their left and right. Elizabeth faces the bar, which is behind Cass, and the jukebox is beyond the row of tables to her right, against the far wall. Cass faces Elizabeth and the booths behind her. Those that lead down to the jukebox are dark, with high dividing walls and no windows. Those lined up to the front door have a large window beside them. More booths sit under the window at the front of the venue, and the bar curves around to face them. To the left of the jukebox is a small alcove with doors leading to the men’s, ladies’, the kitchen and a storeroom. The bar doesn’t reach as far as the alcove: the last two tables have chairs facing a wall, instead of the bar, covered with Kentuckian paraphernalia and photographs. The whole place is deep olive green and dark wood, with frosted designs on the bar rear mirrors. Elizabeth feels it’s a suitably American bar to experience some southern food and drink.

Their conversation meanders through movies, celebrity, royalty, reality television, education, health care, back to education, and back to fiction until, finally, they’re talking about their menus. Elizabeth considers the short list in front of her, a cider in hand. Castiel sits opposite with a beer, for show, and stares at the page, suddenly awkward.  
“Okay, what’s the most American thing I can have?” Elle asks excitedly, wiggling in her seat.  
“Oh, gee, I don’t know Elle… What’s here that they don’t have in England or Australia?” Castiel tries. He’s not too clear on deep American cuisine either.  
“I'm getting the impression that sheer portion sizes will USA the hell out of anything I have anyway… I shall tryyyyy… goetta and spoonbread!” Elle declares, like she’s opening a gift from overseas.  
“I'll share your spoonbread and have a steak,” matches Castiel.  
“Huh. Is goetta one of those things they put on the menu to draw out the foreign saps with no self-preservation?” Elle squints her eyes at him.  
“No,” he smiles sheepishly, “I'm sure it’s a perfectly sensible meal.”  
“They have insensible meals?! Shit! Keep an eye out for us, yeah?” she winks and takes a swig of her drink while considering the juke box.  
Following her line of sight, Castiel asks “Do you really intend to dance?” half pained already.  
“Yes,” Elle replies dryly, “where there is jukebox I shall juke. Why shouldn't I? Are you not going to dance with me?”  
“I'm not much of a dancer.”  
“Well, if you’re more of a drinker you’ll be okay.”  
“I'm not much of either.”  
“Booooo!” she pouts. Castiel cracks a crooked smile but doesn't have time to defend. “Anyway. We'll just cut a slow Evening Fox Trot for the folks and call it a night, won’t we. Can hardly get up to a jig by 8:30.”  
Elizabeth is clearly feeling a bit ripped off by her partner, but she is resolved. She crosses her forearms and leans them on the table, laying down the law. “Seriously Cass, the least you will do is stand on that floor and let me use your arms. The least. It will happen. You don’t know what I've been suppressing these past weeks.”  
“Okay. Well,” he resigns, shuffling his bottle, “I don’t embarrass too easily anyway. You can use my arms.”  
“Awesome! Up high!” Elle motions for a high-five. Castiel looks at her hand. “C’mon Armed Service, do your thing…” -slap- “There you go! Dance floor shenanigans ahoy.” _‘Don’t embarrass easily’ my arse._


	9. Excursion to the Drinking Establishment - Part 2

The meal is, to Elizabeth’s satisfaction, massive. They take a rest from the chat to eat and Castiel regroups his thoughts. He wants to be sure he doesn’t let the conversation slip into promoting Sam or Dean too much, or revealing confidential things. Elle seems to have a way of making him feel too comfortable.  
She stops eating and sits back to think a moment. “I’m just gunna go get something stronger. Back in a tick,” she says, getting up for the bar.  
Castiel has his mouth full, and although he’s not sure what he would’ve said, he wanted to stop her. She comes back with a short brown drink with one block of ice, and a glass of water, and he shows a face of disapproval.  
“Are you familiar with drinking hard liquor?” he asks, staring at the glass.  
“Well, I'm in Kansas,” Elle explains, “and I suspect it will be a while before this happens again, a deprivation though that would be, so I'm making the most of my experience. This has been a most excellent day, Castiel. It deserves a breadth of experiences.”  
“Those drinks tend to hurt,” he says, hoping to dissuade her.  
“This not my first time with bourbon. A little pain never hurt anyone. Cass, what’s wrong?” Elizabeth checks, “Are you ok?”  
“I'm fine,” he replies, now conscious that being protective like this may be unusual. “Just one though, please, I don’t have time for more.”  
“Gee, your faith in my composure is terribly complimentary. Don’t worry about it, I can’t really drink more than one anyway: Gets in the way of my dancing,” she winks, and takes a good swig of the liquor. “Ooooooooooomygoodnessgraciousme. That’s bourbon!”  
“Aren't you going to finish your food?” Castiel asks, nodding at her half eaten meal, stalling desperately.  
“You kidding me?! I'm five-foot-eight! I can’t eat all that! No, I'll take it home.” Elizabeth takes another gulp, adding “I’d really like to savour this a bit more but there’s not enough time. Your fault, you know. Tragedy Maker.” One more tilt and the bourbon is done.  
Castiel twinges at her last words as they remind him of the scenario he’s created with her life. In all sensibility, he knows he made the best decision but he still wishes the cards hadn't been dealt at all.  
“I'll get over it, Cass,” Elizabeth says, standing and shrugging off her jacket. “But only when this outing is complete. Get your trench coat off and come dance with me,” she says, grabbing her cider, and pats his shoulder as she walks past him to the jukebox.

Her hopes for the song selection are low, and she figures if they can fit in three retro classics she'll be happy. As she quickly flicks through the entire list, Cass drags himself dutifully to the small space at the end of the tables, drapes his trench coat over a chair and waits to see what variety of torture she prefers, heaving a dramatic sigh of despair.  
Elizabeth, conversely, can’t believe her luck. She pops in a coin, chooses the combination and turns to see the most miserable baby a grown man can be.  
“No, Cass. No,” she says, squeezing both his shoulders, “this is not supposed to hurt, okay? I think you will like this song, it has lots of potential. There’s like, four other people here, they won’t care. C’mon…”  
[Bam-bam-bam](http://youtu.be/NP5am2vRca0), bam-bam, bada-dada! Bam-bam-bam, bam-bam, bada-dada!  
Elizabeth holds Cass’s limp hands between them and stomps her feet with the drums. She takes turns with different body parts to beat out a rhythm she’s found forever irresistible, occasionally moving her hips or head along with other instruments. With one of the longest intro’s Elle knows; she’s hoping it will give her enough time to warm up her friendly cadaver and see what he’s got.  
“Maybe try copying me. I’ll go small!” She lets go of his hands, making little fists of her own, pumping them up and down along with the beat, slowly rocking back and forth to encourage Castiel. He gradually takes on the task, quite seriously, and with thinking lips and brow furrowed, he too pumps his fists down on the beat. _YES! HE HAS RHYTHM! KALOO KALAY!_  
“That’s it! That’s it! Don’t hold back Cass! It’s dancing!” Elle yells over the music and she starts to move backwards, encouraging him to move his feet, reinforcing the phrase with one foot, then the other, then the hips, more fists,-  
Finally the lyrics kick in and Elle leaves him to it for a moment, breaking away to enjoy the counter-rhythm -  
“Here comes Johnny Yen again!” For a moment, Cass is distracted by her movements. She really can dance, he thinks. But she comes back and leads him again, mashing together as many simple and awkward actions as she can imagine, hoping to set a low, broad bar for him to reach. She doesn't much care how silly she may look – she wants to have fun, happy fun, with her new friend who saved her, and she wants to see him carelessly happy too.  
Elle works her way around the space, shifting between enjoying her favourite parts of the song, which gives Castiel his own space, and encouraging him. He keeps to the beat, the original phrase, and tries out different ways of dancing it – bouncing, jumping, nodding, moving his hands in different directions. More creative than the average bloke, Elle thinks, but not yet quite as free as the average toddler.

It’s a long song and as it fades out they’re both puffed. Elizabeth breathes, hands on knees, saying “Oh my goodness that scratched an itch!” She smiles at Cass and he puts his hands on his hips. “You'll have to take your jacket off soon,” she remarks.  
“One layer at a time is it? Don’t you get any ideas with me young miss!” Castiel jeers, forgetting to watch himself. Elizabeth deliberately doesn't comment on how risqué that was, or how daggy, lest he recoil and echidna himself away for the rest of the night. Instead she tries, “Hey, dancing leads to sinning. Everyone knows,” without any clue of its irony for him.  
“Hmmm,” he nods absently. “What was that song called?”  
“Lust for Life. I’m amazed you’ve not heard it.”  
“Huh,” he smiles, “how apt.”  
“You ready to go again?” Elle asks, having a drink.  
“Sure, do your worst.”  
“Oh, that is the wrong dare my friend.”

Another careful selection; not too sexy, not too fast, maybe some singing... Coin. Button, button. Wait…  
[Drums!](http://youtu.be/iPUmE-tne5U) Another rhythm beckons, right into the ground!  
“Why are they so fast?” Castiel yells, already bouncing slightly.  
“Because they’re happy!” Elle replies.  
And straight off the singing starts- “MMMMMmmmmyeahnow!... I used to think maybe you love me, now baby I’m suuuuuure…”  
This time Elle leaves Cass to do what he wants, but faces him so he can copy if he likes. Whenever he does, she repeats the move for at least four 8s. The 80s dance repertoire is out in full force, and Cass does an admirable effort of copying her. By the bridge they've got a good call-and-response thing going and she’s repeating things she’s done already. Mostly, though, Elle is taking delight in seeing Castiel enjoying himself. Soon enough, this song fades out too.

“OK, a little break! Have some mercy!” Castiel calls, hands up, and he flops down in one of the booths.  
Elizabeth laughs between puffs and sits in a chair. “Okay, lil’ break… You are really good!” They’re both puffing so hard that everything they say sounds like a plea.  
“No! You’re a good teacher!” he declares, still lying down.  
She looks at his lower legs sticking out from the booth and says “Yeah? Well, you can teach all you want, they don’t always learn. You learn real good.”  
“Thanks!”  
A minute or so passes before Castiel sits up. He smiles at Elizabeth, laughing a bit, and wipes his brow with the back of his hand.  
Elle smacks the table. “OKAY! Last one!”  
“Oh! Really?”  
“Yes! Three songs! I've already it picked! And it’s a genuine favourite, so I don’t care if you dance or not,” she says, finishing off her cider and making her selection.  
In a moment, [big crashing drums parade in](https://youtu.be/fZR3ZfesIIw), trumpets declare and a fantastic calypso rhythm fills the room. Elle shimmies her shoulders, imaginary maracas in hands, and goes all out with the hips and the feet and the big movements for the big beats. Exhausting herself by the midpoint she gets Castiel up on his feet, puts his hands on her hips and shows him a half-beat conga line around the small dance floor. Neither of them can manage much more. They dissolve into a messy dance, her hand in his, her other on his shoulder, his other on her back, and smile and laugh at each other, dipping and swaying up and down.

As they turn, almost at the end of the song, Cass notices a fifth person – someone additional to the four other customers previously there. Someone strange. The man turns in his seat at the bar and Cass can’t catch his face in the mirror, such is the angle.  
The song ends and Elle lets Castiel drop her into the booth, her head resting against the back wall. “Oh my goodness! That’s was excellent!” Elle exclaims. “Honestly Cass, I can go home happy, 8:20 and all!!”  
The man at the bar dares a glance at them and Cass’s suspicions are confirmed, and the man knows it. He leaves his seat and quickly walks past the dance floor and into the kitchen.  
“Elle, I don’t feel well!” Castiel says. He leans against the back of the chair – the one with his trench coat – acting ill.  
“Oh no! Oh Cass, here-”  
“Back in a minute!” he says and lunges for the kitchen door, taking his coat with him.  
“That’s-” and he’s gone. “That’s the kitchen. Bugger.”  
Elizabeth collects Castiel’s suit jacket and takes herself back to the table. She picks up her dish and asks the bartender to have it wrapped to go, even though it might be a bit dodgy by now. _Future Elizabeth can worry about that._

As she drums her fingers, fixing her sweaty mess of a hairdo in the mirror, Elizabeth doesn't notice two tall men come into the room. One of them is very tall, and he approaches the other end of the bar and orders two beers. Elle’s food comes back and she requests a glass of water while she waits. _Poor Cass, being sick when you’re out is rough._  
The tall man takes the drinks and walks down to the last booth, by the jukebox, where the other is already seated with his back to the wall.  
His gaze is caught on the woman at the bar, but he can’t figure out why.


	10. Ships in the Night

Castiel pulls on his trench coat as he runs through the kitchen, making it easier to access his weapon. Bursting through the back door, he hears someone bashing through the hurricane fence gate. Without hesitation he aims for a flailing shadow, soon grabbing the figure by his shoulder and flinging him against the fence. The lighting from the building is poor, non-existent from the street, but he is still sure it’s the same guy.

Castiel draws his long silver blade from his coat and aligns it with the base of the man’s head, his forearm pressed against the man’s chest, with a solid hold on a fist full of sleeve at the shoulder. The man seems rattled, possibly out of his depth. So is Castiel a little, as he’s about to realise that he’s not thinking calmly.  
“What are you doing here?” Castiel demands.  
“What? What are you doing man?!” the man cries, “I’m no one! I don’t know you!”  
“What? I didn't ask those questions! Who do you know?” Castiel growls, instantly suspicious. He presses the tip of the blade into the man’s chin, who groans through the sizzling pain and loses control for a moment, letting his eyes flash black.  
“Were you looking for me?” Castiel tries again, lowering the sword enough to let him speak.  
“No, I wasn't looking for anyone,” the demon sneers, defiantly. “I just got lucky I suppose.”  
“And what makes you think finding me was lucky?”  
“You’re hardly a shiny penny Castiel…” who waited for him to start digging. “You know, I’ve met Dean Winchester. In a whole other time and place, but I’ve tasted his blood. I know who she is! I can see it! I -” and the sword of a panicking angel pins a jaw to its skull, killing a demon and its host outright.  
The body slumps to the ground, the fence chinking from the weight. Castiel realises, this being the town most local to the bunker, he should do what he can to minimise the consequences of this killing. He collects the body in his arms, spirits himself away to a forest two counties over, and does his best to secret the crime away amongst the rocks, muttering apologies to the host’s loved ones.  
He hopes the time this all takes isn't longer than the average bout of food poisoning…

Meanwhile, Sam and Dean sit in their booth intending to have a somewhat secretive conversation.  
“It feels weird to be doing this. I'm not sure Castiel is as likely to interrupt us as you think,” Sam remarks. He’s settled into the booth off centre to Dean, so both their legs can stretch.  
“Yeah, well, it doesn't hurt to try a new beer either,” Dean says offhandedly, still peering at the woman at the bar. She has mid brown hair, up in a messy bun. Her skinny jeans are a dark blue and stained and she’s some brown mid-calf boots with straps and buckles around the ankles. Her jacket is short, black and leather and he notices she doesn't have a handbag.  
“I just want to recap where we’re at with Gadriel, and I'm sick of car conversations,” Dean continues, grabbing a drink, eyes barely glancing at Sam while he talks.  
“What, for the eye contact?” Sam snarks. Nothing. “Okay,… this still feels strange…”  
“Sure…”  
Sam realises Dean isn’t really listening. “What are you looking at?” He turns, following Dean’s line of sight.  
“Sure,… do we know her?” Dean asks.  
“No?… I mean, I can’t really see her face. She’s… a woman. So you might know her,” Sam stirs.  
“Shuddup. She’s just… familiar,” he remarks, frowning. “But she’s really not familiar.”  
“What?”  
“I mean, I'm sure… I think I haven’t met her before.”  
“ _What_.”  
Dean sat, unmoved, staring at the woman as though he could draw the information across the room. But nothing happened. She drank her water, recrossed her legs and waited for something. He turned the bottle in his hand. Nothing came to him.  
Sam tilted his head at Dean, wondering what could make him so confusing so quickly. He hadn't even sipped his drink. “Uh Dean, maybe we should get to the point?”  
“Yeeeaahokay champ, I'll just be a minute.” Dean gets up, actually shifting the beer out of the way, and makes to approach the woman. He’s not even sure if he’s going to hit on her; he just wants to see her face.  
“Dean! Dammit Dean-”

Dean stands, before Sam can even be bothered thinking of something to say, Castiel bursts in from the kitchen and runs to the woman at the bar. Sam and Dean both freeze, surprised.  
Castiel says, as calmly as possible and so only she can hear “Elizabeth, we need to leave right now.”  
He lays a blood stained hand on her leftovers and the other on her upper arm, gently but firmly. His suit jacket is over her lap and she climbs off her stool, trying to think, talk, stand and not get scared all at once.  
“Cass, are you ok?”  
“I'm fine, but we need to go. Quickly.”  
“O-okay,” she says, “we can go.”  
Elizabeth turns for the door fast enough for Castiel to relax his grip, but doesn't yet lose contact. He isn't confident that the demon was alone. They both head out the door and away from the bar, towards his car. They drive home in silence.

Dean, still standing, turns to Sam agape. “What the hell was that!” he barks furiously.  
“I dunno! I suppose he has a job, or something,” Sam shrugs.  
“Well,… he should tell us if he’s doing work near the bunker!”  
“He doesn't have to report to us!”  
“Yeah? Well, maybe he should.” Dean was practically pouting.  
“What the hell, Dean? What is up with you?!”  
“I wanted to talk to that woman!” he whines, dumping himself into the booth. “Dammit!”  
Sam frowns, unimpressed with the show. Dean drags his hand on his neck and shuffles against his seat. He’s agitated and Sam’s confused.  
“Maybe, if she’s with Cass, you'll get a chance to talk to her later.”  
“Yes! YYYYES!” Dean cheers, two straight-armed fingers pointing right at Sam’s face. “Good thinking little brother! Let’s go!”  
“What? You haven’t even touched your beer!”  
“Eh! There’s beer at home. C’mon man, we have a mystery to solve!” Dean smacks the table to rouse his brother, who takes a long drag on his half-finished bottle before following him out the door.

Sam strides to catch up, muttering at least another “What?” before they get to Dean’s car, and he holds his tongue all the way home. Dean hums along to his music, tapping the steering wheel, rocking and shifting in his seat. Sam’s silence is a small blessing. Dean can’t begin to explain how he feels – excited, nervous, curious, furious – but he is hella fidgety and wants answers. Had he been prompted to realise that, he’d have felt worried too.


End file.
